


His Hands

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You imagine his hands would be rougher, smaller, slimmer. Probably more skilled, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Hands

You imagine his hands would be rougher, smaller, slimmer. Probably more skilled, too. 

Hands trail down your chest... He would be slow, but purposeful.

Down, down, down...

Then back up, under the rough cotton of your shirt, smoothing across skin, the hills and valleys of your torso, like he doesn't know them well enough to map them out.

You wish, more than anything, that he did.

His mouth is on your neck. He wouldn't be gentle; he would leave marks, nipping and biting his way over soft skin.

You're his and he'd let everyone know.

Slim fingers- or at least, in your imagination those fingers are slim- tweak your nipples one at a time, not too hard, but enough to make you whimper and squirm.

"Please..." You breathe out the word to no one. What are you begging for, anyway? You shove the word back into your throat and try to go back to your fantasy.

He's whispering in your ear. You're surprised you hear it over your own heartbeat hammering in your ears. 

"So responsive... I'm just touching you a little, Jaeger, relax. Or do you want it that badly?"

You wish you knew what his laugh sounded like, low and sultry and teasing and just for you. 

Pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth stifles the moan you give at that. You don't just want it, you need it- need him.

You feel his lips smirk against your ear. His fingers stop and dance down your stomach again. You pretend those slim fingers are teasing you instead of shaking with anticipation.

His fingers. His hands. Not yours.

You bite your lip and throw your head back as he undoes your pants, pulling out your already hard length.

You choke on a moan as he strokes you slowly.

His face is so close to yours you swear you're just exchanging the same breath over and over. He breathes in as you puff out another gasp, he breathes out and you're swallowing as much air as you need.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

He's whispering about how this has to be quick and dirty today, but you like it just like that, don't you? Straight to the point. A shitty brat like you would want it that way. 

His hand works your length at just the right pace. Somehow he knows just when to speed up, slow down, drag his thumb across the leaking slit at the head of your length. It's just right, the way he knows you like this.

"You fucking love this, I know you do. Brat." 

Your whimpers are pathetic and goodness knows he's right.

Two fingers are pressed insistently against your tongue and you accept them, soaking them thoroughly. You keep your eyes closed but a shiver tingles down your spine because you know he's watching. 

This is  _your_  fantasy, so you let yourself imagine he's moaning at the sight.

The hand stroking you is lazy but steady and it takes all you have not to start rocking your hips.

When he's satisfied with the wetness of his fingers (because they're his, not yours, definitely not yours), he pulls them out of your mouth nice and slow.

"You know the drill," he says, low and hot. "Spread those pretty thighs for me."

You don't have to be told twice. 

One finger circles your entrance, and that familiar burn is there before he presses past that first ring of muscle.

"You're so fucking tight," he mutters, continuing to work one hand on your shaft as he speaks.

Eventually both of his fingers are inside of you, and it feels so good, and he's back to whispering dirty things to you as the heat of pleasure coils in your abdomen. 

"Bet you wish these fingers were my cock inside you. You'd be so damn tight for me, I know it. You want me to fuck you, nice and hard, huh? Answer me when I talk to you, shitty brat."

"Y-yes, Corporal." It's a sob, ripped straight from your throat, much louder than you want it to be.

"Oh, call me that again," he rumbles out, voice rough with desire.

"Corporal. Corporal. Corporal!" you whine.

His fingers are curling and hitting that perfect spot inside you and his hand is working your shaft in earnest now. Every breath is a gasped out 'Corporal!' from your lips.

"Come for me, right fucking now, come for me you shitty br-"

"Corporal!"

You practically scream it out from the top of your lungs as you topple over the edge and ride out your climax, hips rocking from your hand to your fingers and-

Fuck. 

The fantasy melts away quicker than the aftershocks of your orgasm do and you become painfully aware of just how alone you are, hand wrapped around your cock, come on your stomach, and your fingers in your ass. You're sure you'd make quite a sight. 

You wish you had longer to just lay here, let that hazy tiredness roll over you, but you don't have that kind of time. 

You tuck your limp cock back in your pants, clean the come off your stomach, wash your hands.

Your hands.

You stare at them for a minute under the water and think.

Your hands had touched your body like that so many times, just thinking about what he could do to you with his hands.

His hands.

No matter what you do, you have to just keep imagining what that would be like.

You imagine his hands would be rougher, smaller, slimmer. 

So much better than your own.


End file.
